


Notes Of An American Curiosity

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Doyle, The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2010-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Holmes takes the opportunity to investigate an aspect of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes Of An American Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snycock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/gifts).



> Thank you to Snycock/Psychgirl for your donation to the Haiti relief efforts.
> 
> If you're interested in the background to aspects of this story, I wax wordy here:   
> http://mab-browne.dreamwidth.org/211662.html
> 
> I was confused about how to describe this story, and have marked it as slash, even though the slash is implicit, as it were.

Time weighs heavily in travel and so, since I make no claims as an author, this trifle of writing serves at least some purpose. The time might pass more quickly with a convivial colleague, but Watson, whom I presume mourns me still, is not here. Phlegmatic he may be, but he is also loyal and that, regrettably, is yet another reason why I shall keep my distance from England. Moriarty may be dead, but he has agents loyal to the memory of the profit that he might have made them. Perhaps I do them injustice. Moriarty was a man of powerful charisma in his way.

This literary bagatelle is not an account of the science of deduction, but a brief account of a mere curiosity. I shall harbour the hope that one day Watson may cast his medical man's eye over these papers. No doubt he will observe my earlier words, and enquire after my burst of sentiment with his customary teasing slyness. Before that, there will be reproaches at my absence and deceit and while I will not deserve them, I may permit them.

My travels have been extensive. I believe that I have now certainly seen at least as many continents as my absent friend, although I shall leave him the mastery in experience of women. All of this is to say that I found myself in New York, a city more polyglot even than London. The photograph brings us a memory of vision, the phonograph a memory of sound. Perhaps those discoveries might do justice to the sight and noise of a bare knuckle fight in what I believe our American compatriots call a 'dive', but I shall indeed be prepared to stand in awe before the man (or woman) who creates a device that records the smells of such a scene. Humanity packed together in a state of excitement is overpowering enough. Then one must add sawdust, blood, intoxicants, the smoke of fires, the reek of food and ordure - a thousand stimuli.

I won my match, of course. Since I was an unknown in that den, I was unsurprised that a watcher – on the wrong side of the odds no doubt – should attempt vengeance for his losses. I was fully surprised that another of the crowd should attempt to warn me. I had matters well in hand, but my would-be rescuer was shoved awkwardly to the ground and likely to be trampled, before I hauled him off the dirty floor and into the comparative freshness of the evening air. It seemed wise to run for it, and my companion kept pace with me until we finally halted. He looked behind us, wide-eyed like a skittish horse and out of breath, before he laughed.

"I'm glad we're out of that." He extended a hand. "My name is Blair Sandburg. I meant to help you and you ended helping me instead. Thank you."

I shook his hand in return, and offered my alias. "Sigerson. And I am grateful for your intent. It was a kindness I wouldn't expect to find in such a place."

He dabbed the flat of his fingers against a bruise that was beginning to darken his face, and winced. He was older than he appeared at first sight, past thirty rather than the middle-twenties that was the first impression. "It didn't used to be so rough. New management. I don't think that I'll be back - unless you plan to return? That was an amazing display; I haven't seen anything so good in years."

I am not immune to compliments. (And if ever I am with Watson as he reads this, I suspect that I will know exactly when he reaches this passage.) Also, Blair Sandburg seemed a likeable enough man, and I was bored, and there was something about his name that tickled at the back of my memory. I thanked him for his enthusiasm. "You have an interest in the martial arts?"

"I follow the fights, and sometimes I win a little money, and sometimes I lose it. But it's the fights themselves that fascinate me rather than the thrill of the gamble." He looked up at me (he was not tall, although one tended to forget that very quickly) and said, "The more I think about it, the more I wonder at what I saw you do. Your style, some of the blows...where did you learn all that?"

"I am something of an auto-didact – in many matters, not just fighting. Where there is no source of information, one must investigate for oneself."

This remark appeared to touch upon some painful memory. His face clouded for a moment. "You are right, of course."

"You are a scholar, I see."

This he denied, despite the clear signs in his person, clothing and demeanour; he admitted to a mere clerk's position – "and occasional tutoring."

Despite his denials, I now had his name clearly placed in my memory. (I recommend the discipline of making do with the minimum of written aides to memory. It forces a spartanly methodical turn of mind, something that might surely appeal to those of a military persuasion.) Of the circumstances where an appalling mix of danger and ennui once required me to read the most yellow of yellow journals, I shall say nothing here; perhaps Watson's more florid periods will do it justice some day. I recalled that the name of my current companion had accompanied some sensational stories, which had offered a frisson of interest because of their descriptions of the hero's senses.

I was hungry, and I was curious. It seemed simplest to share a meal with Mr Sandburg and thereby satisfy two inclinations. Our pell-mell flight had left me at a disadvantage as to our location, but Sandburg proved a competent guide and we found ourselves in a steakhouse where the scent in the air promised far more than might be expected from the modest furnishings. There was more conversation about the art of pugilism, and then I led the subject to the aromas around us. What could be more natural, given where we were? And I have ever had a sharp sense of smell.

The change in Sandburg's manner was gradual, but eventually quite marked. For a while he maintained his initial affability, but wariness grew in him, and then, with an intense flash of his eyes, he tossed his napkin upon the table and stood, scraping his chair noisily upon the floor as he pushed it back.

"I suspect that your very next question will be about sentinels, Mr Sigerson. Have I guessed right?"

"You are acute," I replied, which was flattery given the clear direction of the conversation, but compliments appeared politic in the face of his obvious anger.

"I am nothing of the sort," he said, with considerable bitterness, and turned upon his heel and left. The matter could not be let be and I followed him, not at any particular speed. He noted my presence, and eventually turned and waited for me.

"You're wasting your time," he declared. "Those stories were childish fantasies, and not even written by me, despite my name appearing on them. Now, leave me be, or I will be forced to discuss this with the police."

"That would be quite unnecessary," I said.

"If you persist in this harassment, it will be entirely necessary," he snapped.

"Of those childish fantasies, there was one story – the first one published, I believe – that was quite different from the rest. It was racy and popular in style, I grant, but there was intellect at the base of it." How strange, to stand in the middle of a dark New York street and discuss such matters. "I was not prevaricating when I discussed my sense of smell – I believe that it is far more acute than many another man's, to the point of being overpowering on occasion. The same might be said for my sense of touch and my sight. I pride myself on my intellectual powers, but there are times..." I was exasperated suddenly. "It would be of some interest to me to know if I am set apart from the common herd by physicality as well as understanding!"

Some of Sandburg's irritation softened. I watched as an obvious battle was fought within his heart, and then he gestured extravagantly with his hands, clearly as exasperated as I.

"Come with me, if you must. It's not so far, and I have a couch you may borrow if you need to."

Our way led us to a modest set of rooms in one of the ubiquitous brownstones of the city. There was a modest parlour where the two of us sat. "You share these rooms," I noted.

Again, this seemed to touch Sandburg on the raw. A short, "Yes," was the only reply, as he bustled about gathering papers and books. An engrossing conversation ensued. My companion expounded upon his discoveries and made various notes of my appearance and capacities. In my turn, I copied some of his notes, and will retain them with this account, against the day when I will once again set foot in my old haunts. I was not, I was assured with some earnestness, a sentinel, which was a term Sandburg kept for those who have all five senses acute beyond the usual.

"I described you as a scholar, and this is clearly the case. How did your name come to be attached to those ridiculous tales?"

Sandburg's face flushed. "That was a misunderstanding." He stood, and went to his room, returning with the stilted gait of a man who is embarrassed or ashamed. He put down two items, one a photographic portrait of a man approaching forty, the other a magazine not unlike those where I first met Sandburg's idea of sentinels, although the paper quality was somewhat more refined.

Sandburg gestured towards the photograph. "This is my friend, Jim Ellison. He's a Pinkerton agent." The words came out in a rush. I examined the face set before me. It was handsome, and stern, even allowing for the requirements of such portraiture. Aspects of the face, the dress and the manner informed me that this man sprang from such gentry as the Americas may claim to possess, quite unlike the man who sat opposite me.

"So there was some truth attached to the stories, other than heightened senses." The hero, if such a name may be applied, had been named John Edwards. He had been assisted by a friend with the same initials as the putative author, one Barrington Saunders, a name which notably lacked the German Jew associations of Sandburg.

If anything, Sandburg's face flamed more. He passed the magazine to me. "It was an – exercise - a private amusement, nothing more. The story, I mean. I was inspired by this." He opened the pages and pointed to the printed title and author.

My astonishment was overwhelming, and such a rare occurrence is surely reason enough to write this memoir. The author's name was John Watson, and the story purported to be an account of one of my investigations. If ever I record an investigation, I assure any reader that it will be far more exactingly expressed in the matter of observation, description and the deductive process.

"Is something wrong?" Sandburg asked.

"No, not at all." My emotion was surprise and vexation, nothing more. Trust Watson to ignore the higher truths of the mind in favour of a parlour tale. "If your story was a private amusement, then how did it come to be published?"

"As I said, a misunderstanding. The first was popular, and so another person wrote under my name. I didn't even know until the third story was published!" His tone was sincerely aggrieved. "And I only discovered that because Jim became the butt of jokes amongst his fellow agents."

I looked again at the visage of the man in the photograph. "He appears to be a man of considerable pride."

"Yes." My companion pushed his hand through over-long, unruly hair. "Exactly. There was a quarrel between us. He thought that I – well, never mind what he thought. There was a quarrel," he repeated, "and our relations became strained. And then, with this recent business..." He looked at me, with the air of a man preparing to broach a contentious subject. "What is your opinion of workers' federations, Mr Sigerson?"

"It's not a subject that has exercised my thoughts. That men should seek strength in unity is surely no surprise. But any group may become over-mighty, and I have no taste for the anarchism that such unions sometimes foster."

His lips pressed together at this. "I see that you and Jim have more in common than acute senses." He took a deep breath. "It would be rude to argue with a guest. As I said, Jim is a Pinkerton agent. The Pinkerton Agency, besides acting as enquiry agents, also hires out its men as strike-breakers."

"And you are more sympathetic to those who strike?"

"I think that I may answer yes to that."

"And that is why you are the only resident of these rooms at this moment? Your friend is about company business?" He nodded. "It would indeed place a strain upon a friendship."

"Yes." He was clearly distressed, and I was silent. I have unwound the consequences of passion, but the root of passion itself – for a man, for a woman, for a vice or an ideal; who can understand it?

Sandburg stood once more and gathered together his books and papers. The photograph of Ellison was carefully placed atop the pile and all of it borne away. Then he returned with a blanket and a pillow.

"It's late," he declared, with friendly and patently false cheer. "If you would rather sleep here than return to your own rooms..." He placed his burdens upon the couch. It was indeed late, and I accepted his offer, although I need little sleep when I am well.

Instead, I lay in the dark, my eyes shut, my body still, and I contemplated those discoveries of the evening which might profitably have reason applied to them. Of the others – I had no doubt in my mind that the 'friendship' between Sandburg and Ellison was that of inverts. I have my methods, always. They were, or had been, at least, lovers; a word which will never have reason applied to it, profitably or otherwise.

Sandburg had spoken of a guide, someone who ensured that a sentinel did not become lost in the stimulation of his senses. I was not a sentinel, but still. One might wonder that a man such as myself might not work best alone – in liaison, it is true with others, with sadly lesser minds; but so many triumphs of deduction have been made with another at my side. Guidance of the sort that was Sandburg's study? Or simply the sparks that must fly in the friction between steel and flint?

I have business elsewhere. The night's activities were no more than a pastime, and in the morning I took my leave of my host. But as I sit in a railway carriage, writing of this encounter, I find my thoughts occupied with an unaccustomed curiosity. Perhaps I may enquire later after that engaging young man, Sandburg, and his friend and physical paragon of nature, James Ellison. And now I must take up the magazine which I requested of Sandburg, and read properly the opening instalment of A Study in Scarlet. I suspect I shall find it a most interesting document. One day, I hope to see John Watson again, and no doubt he will have reproaches for me. But my first speedy perusal of his authorial efforts leads me to believe that I will have reproaches for my biographer, also. Oh, _Watson_!


End file.
